The 5 Times John had Nightmares and 1 Time He Didn't
by 8of9
Summary: A little 5 plus 1 story idea that popped into my head. A bit naughty, so rated M for Johnlock smut. Not related to any of my other Sherlock stories. No longer a one-shot, this is now turning into a rather long multi-chapter fic containing some angst in later chapters. Trigger warning for mention of rape (though not actual scenes).
1. Chapter 1

_Just because I've never written a 5 + 1 story, and this little idea popped into my head. Rated M for Johnlock smut. Enjoy! I know I do..._

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******The Five Times John had Nightmares and the One Time He Didn't.**

**ONE:**

Sherlock Homes knew immediately that his new flatmate had post-traumatic stress disorder, manifesting as a psychosomatic limp, hand tremor and nightmares. It was obvious in his walk, the dark circles under his eyes, the asymmetrical tremor in his left hand which he tried to pass off as a caffeine tremor. Much more socially acceptable, but hardly a good enough excuse to fool a consulting detective.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was disturbed by the noise and sounds of distress emanating from John's room at night. He would hear soft murmurings which gradually got louder until they disturbed his thought processes, even in another room.

Finally, after about a week, he could stand it no more. He burst into John's room, slammed the door open and yelled, "John! Wake up!"

The next thing he knew, a certain consulting detective was on the floor with a trembling hand around his throat and a cocked gun held against his temple. John was breathing fast, and even in the dim light from the hallway Sherlock could see that his face was flushed and slightly sweaty.

Sherlock spoke again, very calmly and quietly, "John, you were having a nightmare."

John threw the gun into the corner, and wiped his shaking hands over his face, "Christ, Sherlock! I nearly blew your brains out!" He slowly climbed to his feet and turned on the bedroom light. Both men squinted in the sudden glare. "If you need to wake me again, for God's sake don't yell at me from the dark! That's a brilliant way to get yourself shot. Use a light or gentle touch and speak softly, that's much safer."

Sherlock retorted, "Did you ever consider _not_ sleeping with a gun under your pillow?"

"No. I'm a soldier. If I shot you it would be your fault, so listen to me for a change!"

"Fine."

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**TWO:**

John's nightmares continued to wax and wane. Some nights he would sleep most of the night undisturbed, other nights there would be occasional subvocalized moaning but nothing that was too disturbing to Sherlock. But inevitably, one night John was in the grip of a full-blown panic attack while asleep. He was almost screaming, and his voice was becoming hoarse, and Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. He walked up the stairs to John's room and hesitated outside the door. He remembered John's instructions: _Use a light or gentle touch._

He pushed open the door, telling himself it wasn't an invasion of privacy if this is what John had asked him to do. John was thrashing about on the bed and crying out incoherently. Unused as he was to sentiment, Sherlock felt sorry for his friend's distress. He reached out and lightly ran a hand down John's right arm whispering, "John. Wake up. It's Sherlock. You're having a nightmare."

John woke with a gasp and a groan. "Oh, God. I couldn't save him. He was bleeding out under my hands and there was shrapnel everywhere…"

Sherlock rubbed John's shoulder harder, massaging the tense muscles and trying to force them to relax. "It wasn't your fault. You did everything you could."

These logical reassurances did not seem to reach John in his present distressed state. He just pushed Sherlock away and got up to make himself a cup of tea.

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**THREE:**

After being abducted by Moriarty, John's nightmares grew exponentially worse. Every night now Sherlock could hear John crying out in his sleep. Mostly it was general muffled yelling, but one night Sherlock realized with a guilty start that it was his own name John was shouting. He went up to John's room and quietly opened the door. John was moaning "Sherlock, run! Run, dammit, run!" The hair on his forehead was damp and his hands were clutching convulsively at the covers.

Sherlock reached out and touched John lightly on the shoulder, but he seemed too deeply immersed in the nightmare to notice. He was still thrashing around on the bed and imploring Sherlock to save himself. Sherlock gripped John more firmly by his good shoulder but was unable to hold him still. Just when John was about to tear himself away, and probably end up on the floor, Sherlock was struck with inspiration. He grasped John firmly and whispered in his ear, "It's Sherlock, I'm here. You saved me, you saved us both. It's OK."

His instinct was immediately vindicated as John, though still asleep, seemed to hear his assurances and sink into a quieter sleep. He rubbed John's neck and back for a few minutes, until he was sure that no recurrence was likely to bother John again that night, then retreated back downstairs.

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**FOUR:**

John's nightmares seemed to be improving for a while, and Sherlock was not really sure what sparked off the next recurrence. The Irene Adler case had been resolved satisfactorily and even Mycroft had been pleased at the eventual outcome – very tidy. But for whatever reason John's dreams were becoming more disturbing, until it was more usual than not for him to be screaming in his sleep.

Most nights Sherlock would go up to his room, gently touch him or speak to him and he would turn over and go back to sleep, but on this particular night John was incoherent with terror and all of Sherlock's usual reassuring words were not helping him to settle down. Sherlock was about to resort to waking John, which he rarely needed to do these days, when he realized that there was another method of reassurance which might work. And if it didn't, he could always wake John anyway.

Sherlock slid up behind John on the bed and wrapped his arms firmly around the shorter man hugging him tightly against his longer body. "Shhh, shhh. I'm here. You are not alone." He whispered.

At first he didn't think it was going to work, but then very slowly, John started to relax in his arms. His violent searching head tossing slowed, and his jerky arm movements smoothed out and relaxed as he started to breathe more deeply. "Sherlock? I know you can carry me…" he murmured. His hand came up to rest on top of Sherlock's arm where it circled around him and his head relaxed onto Sherlock's shoulder. Finally, he went completely limp and was apparently deeply asleep again.

Sherlock sighed with satisfaction and relief, but then realized that he was trapped. His right arm was pinned under John's head. He cautiously rolled away from John onto his back, but as soon as he tried to withdraw his arm John moaned a protest. Sherlock did not want to undo all his good work by waking John at this point. Fortunately he had recently downloaded a Russian treatise on political murders of the last 200 years, and he was adept at reading on his mobile using only his left hand to scroll the pages.

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**FIVE:**

After Baskerville John's nightmares became worse, much worse. John had been in Afghanistan and seen terrible things there which had settled to the back of his mind, mostly. But after seeing someone blown up by a buried mine, being drugged and trapped in a laboratory with deliberately applied fear stimulus it would have been a miracle if someone _without_ PTSD had managed to avoid screaming nightmares. For John, it was inevitable.

Sherlock felt guilty, but still felt that he had not had any alternative. John was his friend. John would forgive him. All he had to do now was make it right by helping John with his nightmares.

Each night after they returned from the country, John would head up to his bed alone. Sherlock would wait half an hour, just until he was sure John was asleep, then head up to join John in his bed. He had discovered fairly quickly that it was easier to head off the nightmares if he was there when they started.

Sure enough, a few minutes after Sherlock seated himself on John's bed with his reading material for the night, John started to moan and toss his head on the pillow. His _sotto voce_ mumbling became louder and more agitated. "Sherlock, no… the Hound… Sherlock, come back!"

Sherlock started his now familiar night-time routine. He rubbed John's shoulders and back and whispered reassurances to him. "I'm here. It's Sherlock. I'm OK. You shot the Hound for me and I'm OK now." He had the patter down to a fine art, which is what tends to happen when you repeat the same script five or six times every night. John would settle for a while, then start up again with a different scenario of Sherlock being in danger. He rarely dreamed about Afghanistan any more. From the various vocalizations over the nights Sherlock had a pretty clear idea of what John was dreaming about. Now the nightmares were always about Sherlock being in danger either from mines or from the Hound. Occasionally there would be something about politics or drugs, but usually it was the Hound.

He settled in to read until the next round. If John was running true to form there would be three or four episodes in a row before he would sleep most of the night, and perhaps another one or two in the early morning. Sherlock would wake John if the morning ones were close enough to the time he would have been getting up anyway.

"Sherlock… Oh, God… Sherlock, run! The Hound!"

Sherlock slid down the bed and hugged John into the curve of his body. "Shhh, it's OK, I'm fine. You killed the Hound, I'm OK now."

John eventually subsided into quiet sleep. Sherlock allowed himself to keep spooning John's sleeping body. After all, he could always kip on the couch during the day. John needed his rest at night if he was going to work in the clinic. It was for John's benefit that Sherlock stayed with him for hours every night, holding him in his arms. All for John, of course. He would do anything for John, his only friend. Only a friend. Naturally.

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**AND ONE:**

It had been over a month since Baskerville. The nighmares were becoming less constant, but Sherlock was now in the routine of taking copious reading materials with him to John's room every night. He wondered occasionally if John was aware of what was going on at night, but he never needed to wake John now, and there never really seemed a good moment to ask him about it. Besides, if he wasn't asked then he couldn't object, and it was working for them both the way it was.

On this particular night Sherlock had already resettled John twice, and read most of a treatise on shotgun scatter patterns. He was getting tired himself, and thinking of shutting his eyes for a few hours. He always slept less than John,and he woke easily when John moved, so he had no fear of falling asleep and being found by John in the morning.

He slid down behind John and wrapped himself around the smaller man, spooning him comfortably. John was so warm to sleep with, this was an indulgence Sherlock was learning to enjoy.

So it was with disappointment that he felt John's familiar head tossing start up again, along with the typical moans and mumbled phrases. "Sherlock… Sherlock, oh, God…"

He ran his hands over John's shoulders and back, whispering his usual assurances, "John, I'm here. It's OK, it's all fine."

Unfortunately, John did not settle down as quickly as Sherlock had come to expect lately. He seemed if anything more agitated by Sherlock's voice. "Sherlock… What? [inaudible mumbling]… Sherlock, I can't…"

Suddenly John flipped himself over so that he was facing Sherlock, although his eyes were still tight shut. He seemed to be trying to duck his head down, perhaps avoiding something? Sherlock obligingly moved away to create some space for John to burrow down into the bedclothes, but this seemed to make it worse. John's distress increased, and he was clearly reaching and searching with his hands. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Where are you?"

Sherlock moved closer again, hugging John tightly against himself, and John seemed to relax back into sleep. Mostly. There was one part of John that was definitely _not_ relaxed at all. In fact, John had a very obvious hard-on which was now resting against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock froze. What now? This was a different kind of dream which Sherlock was witnessing, and he wondered what to do. On one hand, this might be his only chance to live out a little fantasy which had increasingly occupied his mind nightly. On the other hand, John would probably think it was an invasion of privacy, or intrusive, or some other problematic thing if he was pleasured by Sherlock in his sleep. Even if he seemed to enjoy it at the time. In fact, his dream speech (and the erection still rubbing against Sherlock's leg) combined to suggest that Sherlock's fantasy might not be so far from John's mind either.

Still, it would be unethical to take advantage of John in his sleep. Sherlock had just decided that he really needed to peel himself away from John and go back to his own, cold room when John's actions took any further decision out of his reach. John threw his arm over Sherlock, trapping him in place. John's face was burrowing into his chest – was John kissing his collarbones? Yes, apparently he was. John's hips were moving in an irresistable rhythm as he rubbed himself against Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock was in an agony of doubt. He could not bring himself to participate actively – that would be taking advantage of John. Yet neither could he tear himself away. John was kissing him. John wanted him. No, he could not tear himself away from that. And for the first time in years, Sherlock was hard as well. He turned just a little onto his side. Now that he was facing John squarely, John's hard cock was rubbing against his own, and God, it was good.

Sherlock shut his eyes and bit his lip for silence. John's moans were increasingly frantic and now Sherlock wondered how he had ever mistaken the tone for a nightmare.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, oh God…"

The words were the same as he'd been hearing for many nights, but they sounded so different now with John rutting and thrusting against him. Sherlock realized that they were both going to come in their pyjamas - and he also realized that he didn't object at all to the idea.

He whispered in John's ear the same script he'd been using earlier, only in a rather different tone of voice now, "John, I'm here. It's all OK. It's Sherlock, it's all fine."

John bucked his hips a few more times against Sherlock, then he was climaxing with deep groans and cries of Sherlock's name. Sherlock decided that finishing himself off with his hand wouldn't be a violation of John's confidence. Of John's sheets perhaps, but not his person. It only took a few strokes and he was coming, gasping out John's name and spilling his seed over his own hand.

In few more moments the bedroom was completely silent. For once, both men were sleeping soundly, wrapped in each other's arms. There were no more dreams of any kind that night.

The next morning, for the first time ever, John woke first.

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_Remember, reviews are love and if you send me ConCrit I will love you forever! I'm trying to work up to doing some serious writing for a competition, so all comments and pointers gratefully accepted._


	2. Chapter 2

**Five plus One, Chapter 2.**

_Just experimenting a bit with a dual POV scene…_

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**John:**

John woke warm and happy and more refreshed than he could remember feeling for a long time. It must have been one of his rare nights without nightmares. Or at least, he couldn't remember having a nightmare, which was a distinct plus.

His contented morning drowse was cut short by the alarming realization that he was not alone in his bed. That explained his current warm and relaxed state, which he now recognized as a combination of post-coital cuddles and endorphins. However, there was the much more concerning fact that he did not remember a single thing from the night before which would explain how he had achieved this (admittedly very enjoyable) state. He had broken up with Jeanette some time before and hadn't had time to go out meeting people since then.

He racked his brain to remember whether he had been out pulling at the pub the night before, and how much he must have drunk, and what on earth was her _name_? He was usually good with names. He plastered a smile on his face and started to turn over, hoping like hell that seeing her face would trigger his memory.

He turned over, and felt the smile melt away from his face into an expression of open-mouthed shock. _Sherlock?_

Even worse, Sherlock's eyes were open and he was staring straight into John's face, with his usual inscrutable expression.

John felt his face heating up, and cursed his fair complexion which showed every emotion. Although Sherlock could deduce him any time he felt like it anyway. Damn him.

Damn him for being so gorgeous and so unattainable. So "married to his work" despite swanning around their flat in only pyjamas or a dressing gown.

Speaking of pyjamas, John became humiliatingly aware that his own were damp in a rather revealing place. What the _hell_ had happened last night, and how much did Sherlock know about it? Had he had a wet dream? Or had Sherlock and he actually…?

His face heated even more and unable to stand it, John rushed out to the shower. He turned on the hot water and stood under it, his mind spinning like a confused hamster in a wheel as he tried to process the new thoughts that were cascading through his mind. He reached for his shampoo and automatically washed his hair, wondering all the while what on earth he was going to say to Sherlock when he finally had to emerge from the bathroom?

Tea. He needed tea to face this particular morning.

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**Sherlock:**

Sherlock was abruptly awake and frozen with horror. John was awake (his change in breathing pattern was obvious) and in less than ten seconds he would turn over and catch Sherlock in his bed. He had never meant for this to happen. How would John react? What would John say?

Sherlock was well aware that John's attraction to him was subconscious. John was very overtly heterosexual and denied any gay tendencies at every opportunity. He often made uneasy jokes about how people "would talk" but Sherlock was aware this was a form of repression. What he didn't know was how John would react when forcibly confronted with desires he was not ready to consciously acknowledge. It appeared he was about to find out.

John turned to face him with a smile. A smile that slid rapidly away from his face as soon as he spied Sherlock. His face turned red and it did not look like a flush of pleasure, although his heart rate was certainly elevated.

After staring at Sherlock for almost a minute, turning redder every second, John jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Sherlock could feel his gut churning with disappointment as he listened to John frantically scrubbing Sherlock's touch off every part of his body.

He quietly gathered up his books and notes from the night before and retreated to his own bedroom, locking the door behind him. He would let John have his morning tea and breakfast and go to work without bothering him. It was not unusual for Sherlock not to feel like eating breakfast.

John hated him, John was disgusted by his touch and couldn't wait to wash it off.

At this moment, he couldn't imagine ever eating again.

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_Damn. As if I needed another WIP! But I just had to continue this piece - I woke up this morning with an idea for where it is going that just wouldn't get out of my head until I got up at stupid-o'clock and wrote it. Long story short, I'm changing this to "incomplete" as I think I'm going to write more of this - especially if I get encouragement from any or all of you who read it... (hint, hint!)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry – I was in the mood to write angst. I'm not feeling well so everyone else gets a miserable time too… Trigger warning for a discussion of rape and some more PTSD symptoms._

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**Sherlock:**

After John had gone to work at the clinic Sherlock flopped down on the couch for some serious thinking. There were several incontrovertible facts and some speculations to be sorted into rooms of the Mind Palace:

_Fact 1:_ John had nightmares which impaired his functioning the next day.

_Fact 2:_ Sherlock's presence alleviated John's nightmares and improved his subsequent functioning.

_Fact 3:_ John liked to work and to be useful.

_Conclusion 1:_ John needed Sherlock, even if he was not aware of it.

_Fact 4:_ John was attracted to Sherlock, subconsciously.

_Fact 5:_ John's conscious mind was in denial of his attraction to Sherlock.

_Conclusion 2:_ Sherlock needed to confront John and make him aware of his attraction, then they could sleep together regularly which would improve the functioning (and fulfill the fantasies) of both John and Sherlock.

_QED. Quite Easily Done._

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**John:**

John stumbled through his day at the clinic mostly on autopilot. Fortunately, he had been a doctor long enough that routine reassurances came easily to his lips, and his usual script of "breathe in, breathe out" did not require much conscious attention.

It was all very lucky, because his conscious attention was almost entirely consumed with agonizing about what had happened the night before. What had he done? What had they done? _What had happened?_ Never before had John cursed his intransigent mind as much as now. Why was his stupid unconscious mind throwing out tantalizing hints of what might have happened and what he wished might happen, without telling him what had _actually_ happened?

Sighing, he decided to put it out of his mind. There was nothing else he could do until he could ask Sherlock about it all. This morning's embarrassment notwithstanding, Sherlock was usually very blunt about "sentiment". If only John could be an adult about it, Sherlock would probably tell him what he needed to know. And then, maybe, their relationship could go to the next level? Something had obviously happened, and if it had been good for both of them, well, then… Maybe the door which had always thought closed might finally be cracking open?

The afternoon at the clinic seemed to pass very slowly.

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**Sherlock:**

Sherlock retreated to his room when he heard John's key in the front door. John often came home from the surgery tired. He would need a cup of tea before any conversation. Not that this would be a long conversation of course. Sherlock would simply explain his facts, his deductions and his conclusions, then John would agree and they could go to bed together. He was rather looking forward to it.

His mind brought up the moment from the morning when John had turned to face him with that gorgeous sleepy smile – the one which had so quickly vanished at the sight of Sherlock's face. His stomach still insisted on doing queasy rolls over John's expression. He told his transport to shut up. John was a logical man and he wished to be productive and useful. He would, as per usual, be overwhelmed and impressed with Sherlock's deductions. He would say "brilliant" in that admiring tone. This time nothing had been missed.

He changed into fresh pyjamas. Perhaps he should wait until after John had eaten dinner, then they could go straight to bed? That might be best. John would be more relaxed after dinner. Sherlock picked up a book and let his unconscious mind map John's movements around the kitchen from the sounds. He would know when it was time.

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**John:**

John let himself into the flat and looked around hesitantly. No Sherlock to be seen. His coat was hanging on its hook and Sherlock's bedroom door was closed. He was home then, but giving John some space. Space was good. Tea would be even better.

John made himself a cuppa, then flopped down on the couch with a sigh. He flipped on the telly and sat staring at it while he thought about other things entirely. Should he go into Sherlock's room and interrupt his experiments and demand to know what had happened? Should he wait for Sherlock to emerge? Should he pretend to know what had happened already? No, he'd never been able to fool Sherlock before, no way would he get away with it now.

He rang for Chinese food and ate fried rice without tasting it. He propped up a medical journal in front of his eyes as he ate but the new uses of COX2 inhibitors just couldn't hold his attention. He put the leftovers in the fridge and washed his plate, all on automatic pilot. He made himself another cup of tea – and then nearly dropped it when a deep voice spoke from behind him.

"Hello John. I see you've had dinner. Would you make a cup of tea for me as well, please? I have some things to tell you."

Sherlock looked calm enough. He was still wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown so presumably he hadn't left the flat all day. But "things to tell you"? Was that Sherlock-ian for "we need to talk"? At least he would finally, _finally_ find out what they had done last night. That had to be on the agenda.

His hands had made Sherlock's tea (two sugars, no milk) while his mind had been vacillating. He carried both cups of tea into the living room and put Sherlock's down in front of him on the coffee table. He nursed his own in both hands as he sat down in his chair. The warmth of the tea might help steady the tremor in his hands. He hoped.

"Sherlock, I need to ask you… um." John blushed and stared at the carpet for a moment. God, this was even more embarrassing than he had expected.

"I mean, I noticed this morning that my pyjama pants were… and I wondered if we… Oh God." He ran a shaking hand through his hair. This had actually never happened to him previously. He had always, _always_ remembered what had gone on the night before. He had never before woken up with someone and not remembered…

Wait a minute. Sherlock was a brilliant chemist. He had woken up with Sherlock in his bed and wet pyjama pants. He did a quick visual check. Sherlock was wearing different pyjama pants from the night before. Yesterday the pyjamas had been some kind of plain dark grey, now he was wearing blue and white stripes. Sherlock had spent the whole day in the flat without getting dressed. The only reason for him to change them would be that his other ones must have been… soiled. Oh. My. God. Sherlock must have drugged and _raped_ him!

John jerked to his feet, spilling scalding hot tea over his hand. His eyes and voice were no longer confused. Now he was cold and angry. His words came out sharp and bitten off. "Never mind. Forget whatever excuses you were going to offer, whatever justifications you were going to give me. You're a sociopath, I get that. But that doesn't mean you get to just _take_ whatever you want from me! How dare you? How dare you climb into my bed while I was unconscious and _use_ me for your own pleasure! That's sick. It's wrong. And no matter how narcissistic you might be, you _knew_ it was wrong!" John was shaking all over now.

Sherlock looked up at him from the couch, and John was glad for once that he had the height advantage. "John, no, it wasn't like that!"

"Oh really?" John could turn on the sarcasm too. "So you _asked_ me before you climbed into my bed and I just don't remember it? You _asked_ me before you touched me? You bloody well got my explicit and informed consent before you fucking took your sexual pleasure with me?" John's voice was climbing towards hysteria. "If you didn't ask me, and you got off with me while I was unconscious then I'm calling it rape. I know you have Mycroft and Lestrade and the whole bloody British government all sewn up, so I won't press charges. But you can hardly expect me to keep living here with you."

"John, don't move out. It's not necessary. It was nothing like that!" Sherlock pleaded. "Please listen to me for just a minute!"

"No. I refuse to listen to any excuses for rape, unless you can deny any of the relevant facts. I know you didn't ask me, so just answer the only questions that matter. Did you touch me?"

"Well, yes, but not in the way that you mean."

"Fuck off. Did you come?"

"Yes, but it wasn't like that!"

"You complete and utter _bastard_! You know what? I'm not going to move out. This is my flat too and you know damn well I don't have anywhere else to go. The least you can do is for _you_ to move out! Go stay with Mycroft, or at his club or live in the lab at St Bart's for all I care! Just get out. Get out." The last two words were almost a whisper as John folded down into his chair. He was still clutching his mug in one hand and the other was over his mouth. He wasn't sure if the churning in his stomach meant that he was going to cry, or vomit.

Sherlock stood up, towering over John as he huddled in his chair. John couldn't help cringing away from him. Sherlock stood still for a moment, then without speaking turned and left. John heard him take his coat off the rack and then the front door of 221B closed. John was finally alone, just as he'd demanded. He curled up and turned his face into the back of his armchair and cried until he fell asleep.

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**Sherlock:**

Sherlock walked out of 221B in a daze. Last night had been wonderful. Today had been a day of anticipation. This evening it had all gone so wrong and now his whole life was in pieces. And John's too. John was upset. John was crying. John hated him and had called him a rapist. No, that wasn't right. John had made a mistake somewhere, he just knew it. But how to show John, how to get him to listen when he was so hurt and angry? Sherlock wandered aimlessly through the streets of London, thinking.

It was several hours later and Sherlock was still walking and thinking when a black car with tinted windows pulled up alongside him. Oh well, for once Mycroft was making himself useful, and he had only the clothes, pyjamas actually, he was standing in. He got into the car.

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_Sorry for the angst. I'll fix it all up eventually. I'm really a happy Johnlocker at heart, so we'll get there... Reviews are love! That little box just down there makes me really happy, especially if you have any writing tips for me. Please put something in my tip jar!_


	4. Chapter 4

**John:**

John hit the floor of the living room and woke, disorientated. It was the middle of the night, he'd been having some horrible dream about fighting with Sherlock, and they had split up. But wait, they had never been together? Not _together_ together. He was confused. He hadn't had nightmares for quite some time, not for months, so he was rather shaken. He decided to get up and make himself a cuppa. Tea would make everything better.

He noticed that his hands were shaking as they made the tea. He wasn't upset, he was angry. Angry because Sherlock had ruined their friendship by climbing into bed with him. Angry because Sherlock had made him feel… well, best not to think about that part. Angry because Sherlock had left.

John was used to feeling angry. Angry was much better than sad. Angry was much, _much_ better than scared or hurt or helpless. John had been angry with Harry for leaving John alone at home when she ran off to drown her sorrows in drink. So many times in Afghanistan John had been angry at the enemy when his patients had died or his friends had been wounded. After returning to London John had been angry at his wound, his leg, his therapist.

So now, John tried to be angry with Sherlock. Sherlock had hurt him, had used him, had left him. John examined his anger, like he would poke at a sore tooth with his tongue. He'd been angry many times before but now his anger was a bit… flat. It kept deflating under the memories of laughing with Sherlock after a crazy run through London chasing a cab or a killer. Even his memory of That Night, about which he felt he should rightfully be very angry, kept drifting off to the warm and comfortable feeling of waking with Sherlock pressed against his back and Sherlock's arm around his waist.

He decided to warm himself up with a shower. It was bloody cold in the living room of the flat at 4am. Nothing to do with missing another kind of warmth. Not at all.

In the shower John finally forced himself to examine his own body closely. He was a doctor, after all. He hadn't previously wanted to look for the physical evidence of being used, rather afraid of what he might find. It was too late for police evidence, of course, but he knew his own body well enough to know if anything had happened to it. He lathered up his fingers with soap and slowly, carefully examined his perineum and anus. Not sore at all. No abrasions. With increasing relief, he slipped one finger inside himself. Tight. No tenderness. He felt… normal.

Following immediately from his relief was a sense of guilt. So Sherlock hadn't violated him while he slept. He had assumed too much, overreacted a bit, and well… if they both had got off together, wasn't that something he had been dreaming about for a while anyway? Dreams. Oh God. Had he been having a wet dream about Sherlock _with Sherlock right there in his bed_? He knew he hadn't been drunk and if Sherlock hadn't drugged him, then could _he_ have initiated whatever had happened, albeit while asleep?

John's sense of guilt doubled. He had known for quite some time that he had vivid and often disturbing dreams. They hadn't been so bad lately, but previously he had sleep walked, sleep talked and (not to put to fine a point on it) sleep wanked. When he had first been to boot camp and had to sleep in a dormitory it had been discovered fairly quickly and been the source of many ribald jokes. Fortunately, once he had completed his officer training he had his own quarters and he didn't think any of his current army companions knew about his dreams. The big question now was: did Sherlock?

# # # # # # # # # # # # # #

**Sherlock:**

Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night. He spent most of pacing the floor of Mycroft's spare room, and the rest tearing apart Mycroft's bathroom looking for nicotine patches, tablets or cigarettes. He didn't find any.

Around 3am he finally settled down to some serious thinking. He would show John that there had been a terrible mistake. _John's_ terrible mistake, not his, of course. He would convince John that everything would be fine, that they could go back to being friends. If he could mount a totally convincing argument, John would have to forgive him, wouldn't he?

But how to get John to listen? John was angry and defensive and walled up inside his own assumptions. How could he get John to listen long enough to make him understand? He needed to address John indirectly, but Sherlock was not usually an indirect person. Hmmm. Problem.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # #

**John:**

The alarm woke John at 7am for work. He thought he had managed about two hours of sleep after his long shower, which wasn't nearly enough. He stumbled down to the kitchen and put on the kettle. He let it boil while he dragged on some clothes. It was going to be a long day at the clinic.

When he got there, he almost turned around and went home again. He had been rostered to see walk-ins. He was too tired to deal with this. Why couldn't it be a nice quiet day of reviewing blood pressure charts and renewing scripts? Walk-ins were so unpredictable, and half of them would be looking for prescription drugs. But beggars and locums can't be choosers, so with an air of resignation John sat down at the designated desk and waited for the receptionist to buzz him for a case.

* * *

The morning passed reasonably quickly, with mostly coughs and cold and a few STI screens. One teenage girl wanting to go on the pill without her parents knowing, only two drug seeking patients and one strange rash which John had no idea what it was and had to send off to a dermatologist for a second opinion. Pretty usual mix for the walk-in part of the clinic.

After lunch it was quieter, and John even had some down time to check his emails and to start composing a long apology email to Sherlock. It didn't go very well, so he just saved it as a draft and decided to look at it again later. He didn't think he could explain his current state of mind via text message.

He was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom from the front desk. He had another walk-in patient. A certain Rachel Adams was wanting to see a doctor about going on the pill.

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts of Sherlock, John went out to the front desk to collect the file and the patient. Rachel Adams looked young to be going on the pill. He checked the file, yep, she was only sixteen. She also looked like she had been living rough for some time. He hoped nothing bad had happened to her. He sighed and called her into his examination room.

After the usual reassurances of confidentiality (even from her parents) Rachel finally stopped staring at the floor and got to the point. "I didn't really come here just to get the pill. I also need the morning after pill because things got out of hand last night with my boyfriend."

John tried to maintain an open listening posture and a neutral professional expression.

"I need to know what else to do – my boyfriend has accused me of raping him. I didn't, but I don't know how to convince him that I didn't."

John was surprised. Girls sleeping rough and being raped was unfortunately common. This though, was a bit out of the blue. He was thankful that his professionally blank expression had been tested many times and was firmly in place. "How about you tell me exactly what happened, and we can go on from there. You might need a sexually transmitted infection screen as well, but why don't you tell me from the start?"

Rachel looked embarrassed, but having come this far, she leapt in with both feet and told the whole story. "Well, I've been sleeping under the Chertsey Bridge for the last few weeks. It gets pretty cold down there, so we tend to sleep in pairs under some newspaper. I'd been bunking with a girl called Ella, but she drifted off somewhere about a week ago. I started sleeping back to back with this guy called Jesse. He's about my age and I… sort of like him." She blushed a bit before continuing.

"Anyway, we hadn't done anything much, just a little kissing and stuff. Then last night he was kind of moaning in his sleep and I thought he was getting sick or something? So I turned over and put my hand on his arm. He turned to face me, and I realized he was still asleep. He was moaning and carrying on, so I thought maybe I should wake him up, but then I realized he was dreaming about having sex."

"You mean he had an erection?"

Rachel rolled her eyes, "Yeah, and he was thrusting his prick against my hip and all that stuff. He was kind of cute, and I didn't see any harm in it." She shrugged. "Anyway, he finally came all over my leg and it was kind of hot actually. So I decided a bit of action wouldn't be bad, and I was touching myself when he woke up and got all bent out of shape about it." She shrugged again. "Sure, I was thinking about him, but if anyone was going to cry 'rape' I reckon it should have been me and not him. I was just sleeping there when he decided to come all over me, and now I could be pregnant and shit…" The tears were welling up in her eyes now.

John hastened to reassure her. "If that was all that happened, you definitely can't be pregnant or infected. You don't even need an STI screen, though I will give you a script for the pill."

Rachel looked relieved, but not completely reassured. "But what about his hissy fit that I touched him? How do I convince him that nothing really happened? That he was dreaming and whatever happened in his mind wasn't real?"

John nodded seriously. "You can only talk to him about it. Be open and honest and talk it through. There is no other way to handle an adult relationship, especially if you plan to continue having some kind of relationship with him."

Rachel looked sceptical. "So your prescription, _doctor_, is to talk to him and hope he will listen?"

"Yes. If you want it to work out between you, you have to try."

Rachel smiled slightly and leaned towards him. "Then I suggest you take your own advice _doctor_. Sherlock Holmes is waiting for your call." Then she stood up and left the surgery, closing the door softly behind her.

John sat stock still for a moment. Then he gathered up his doctor's bag and grabbed his coat. He threw an excuse for leaving early at the receptionist on the way out and hailed a cab. On the way home he sent a text.

_Meet me at 221B Baker St. We need to talk. JW._

_Already waiting for you at home. SH._

* * *

___After the shock I gave everyone in the last chapter, I decided to try to publish this chapter fairly quickly (for me) before I go into hospital tomorrow. So here you are, sorry if it is a little rushed! Reviews are love! That little box just below looks empty and lonely... ;)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.**

John walked up the stairs of 221B Baker Street and heard the kettle boiling. How did Sherlock know? Never mind, the git seemed to know everything. He sure as hell knew more about all of this than John did at the moment.

John made his way rather hesitantly into the living room of the flat. No Sherlock. From the sounds he was in the kitchen making tea. John sat down in his chair with a sigh. Here we go.

He raised one eyebrow slightly as Sherlock entered with a complete tea setting on a tray. Tea in a pot, cups and saucers, milk and sugar (which he knew John didn't take). He was really making an effort to set the scene for a serious talk.

"Thank you, this looks lovely," said John quietly. For a few moments the only sound in the room was the small domestic sounds of Sherlock pouring out tea and adding milk to John's and sugar to his own. He passed the cup and saucer to John and waited for him to take a sip.

John took a second sip of tea and sighed with satisfaction. "That's good. Right, now we need to talk. I take it 'Rachel' is one of your homeless network and you sent her to infiltrate my office and force me to listen to your point of view?"

Sherlock nodded. "I didn't think you would listen to me if I tried to talk to you directly, so I decided to tell my side of the story indirectly. I knew that as her doctor you would listen to her carefully and non-judgementally." He looked rather proud of himself.

"Well, I suppose it worked. I'm aware I may have… assumed too much and over-reacted a bit. But Sherlock, consent _is_ really important in sexual relationships. If you can't understand that, then we can't do this."

"Do this? You mean you _do_ want to have a sexual relationship with me?" Sherlock looked both hopeful and anxious.

"Umm, maybe." John was aware that he may have made a revealing slip. "But please, I need to know exactly what has been going on while I've been asleep. Please tell me everything and let me decide what I am comfortable with."

"Well, it started several months ago…" Sherlock began.

"Several _months_?" John yelped.

"You asked me to tell you everything, and I assume you want to know when I started sleeping in your bed." Sherlock said, rather petulantly. "I'm trying to tell you _everything_, so don't interrupt."

"Sorry, I was just… umm, not expecting that. Go on."

"The first time I spent the night in your bed was after the Irene Adler case. You were having some kind of nightmare and I tried rubbing your arm and massaging your back – all the things that had worked before, but you seemed to need more. So I climbed onto the bed and hugged you, and by the time you fell asleep my arm was trapped. So I just stayed the night reading on my phone. You know already that I don't sleep much."

"Er, right. So that was the first time. Then what?" John looked intrigued, but not upset.

"I didn't start sleeping in your bed regularly until after Baskerville."

"Oh yes, Baskerville." John shivered. "I was expecting to have a recurrence of nightmares after that whole Hound thing, and the minefield and the laboratory terror experiment. I'm sorry if I bothered you with my nightmares, but I can't believe you didn't think about the effect on my PTSD before trying to drug me!"

"I _didn't_ drug you!" Sherlock protested.

"Yes, as it turns out. But you certainly _tried_ to! And…" John hesitated, but he had to know. "Have you ever tried to drug me since?"

"What? No!" Sherlock was shocked.

"Ah, good then. That's very good." John was relieved. He had already decided that it probably hadn't happened that way, but it was reassuring to have the point explicitly clear.

"Your nightmares were frequent and severe after Baskerville, and I was spending so much time going up and down resettling you several times every night, it just became easier to take my books and read in your bed. Besides, the nightmares go away more quickly if I'm there to touch you as soon as they start." Sherlock shrugged. It was all perfectly logical.

"Touching, yes, we should talk about that. What kind of touching are we talking about, exactly?"

"Just like you told me that first night; light and gentle touch. Usually I just rub your shoulders or back. If you need more I slide one arm under your neck and one around your waist and hug you from behind. That's how I got my arm trapped – still do, sometimes, but it works really well when nothing else does."

"I see. Did you never think of just turning a light on?"

"Oh!" Sherlock realized he had missed something. _There's always something!_ "I thought you meant light touch, not an actual light."

John giggled. "You mean all this time you've been spending hours in my bed and you never realized you could have just turned on a light and woken me that way?"

Sherlock sniffed. "I got a lot of reading done."

John grew serious again. "So, what happened That Night. Or, oh God, please tell me it was just the one time. _That_ hasn't been going on for months, has it?"

Sherlock couldn't resist a small smirk. "You mean your nocturnal emission event? No, that was just the once."

John rolled his eyes. "Nocturnal emission? You do know the usual expression is a wet dream, don't you? You probably have even had one once or twice yourself, I'd imagine."

"You don't have to imagine…" Sherlock smiled suggestively.

"Never mind that now." John backtracked hastily. "Please, just tell me what happened! I need to know if we are ever going to move forward."

"Well, it started like a normal nightmare, and that's what I thought it was at first. You were moaning 'Sherlock, Sherlock' just like you always do…"

"I always do that?" John was surprised.

"Yes, most of your Hound nightmares are about me being mauled by the Hound before you shoot it. I thought it was another one of those. But then you turned over and started rubbing against me and I realized you had an erection and it wasn't one of those dreams after all. I tried to leave, but you trapped me and rutted against my leg until you ejaculated."

"Oh God, how embarrassing. What else? There's more isn't there?"

"Er, well, yes." Now Sherlock looked embarrassed. "I found that after you were… satisfied, that I had an erection myself. That hasn't happened to me in years. So I stroked myself to completion inside my pyjamas, without touching you at all. You were asleep by then, and I fell asleep afterwards. I didn't mean to, and that must have been why you woke up first in the morning and surprised me. I didn't think you would be so upset by it all." Sherlock sighed at the remembrance of that awful morning listening to John in the shower.

"Mmmm." John was clearly thinking about the new information Sherlock had just provided. He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. "There's something else about me you should probably know."

"What? Did I miss something?" Sherlock was annoyed with himself.

"Well, you didn't really miss it. It's not something I talk about much. You probably think I jumped to conclusions getting so upset about…" John waved his hand in air to indicate everything they had just talked about. "But there are reasons why consent is so important to me. I was upset because of something that happened to me in Afghanistan." He stopped talking and his eyes darted around the flat, looking everywhere but at Sherlock.

"You were raped." Sherlock said it flatly. He narrowed his eyes and looked closely at John. "You were drunk and it was an army mate so you never said anything to anyone. You were angry and embarrassed, and you still feel ashamed of losing your virginity with a man that way. But you thought it was wrong for a doctor to get into that situation – John, you are being ridiculous. You should have reported it!"

John winced. "The details don't matter and I don't want to talk about it. The point is that I didn't get to consent, that I would not have consented to that at all. So having things done to me against my wishes has kind of been a hot button for me ever since."

Sherlock stood up. "Thank you John, for letting me know and for clearing the air between us. I understand perfectly." He went into his room and closed the door and leaned against it. Then his knees gave way and he found himself sitting on his bedroom floor staring at nothing. After all that hard, messy emotional work of that long and difficult conversation, only one phrase kept repeating itself in his head:

_I would not have consented to that at all._

* * *

_Whew! Lots of talking there - I think this story has one or two more chapters to go but it's going to be a while off I'm afraid. I'm out of hospital now but still not well so the writing is going slowly. Please review and tell me what you think - if I get lots of reviews there may be two more chapters! ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had walked out in the middle of their conversation, leaving John sitting with his mouth open. After setting the context of his history, John had been about to move forward into their future together when Sherlock bloody Holmes had ended the conversation and walked out.

_I understand perfectly._

Oh no, he didn't. Well, if he wasn't going to sit and listen, then the bloody genius could just deduce it for himself. John rubbed his hands together and started planning how to drop little hints for his private detective to gather. This was going to be fun.

"Sherlock, I'm going to order dinner. Chinese OK with you?"

There was no answer from the ground floor bedroom, so John went ahead and ordered enough for two, and some spring rolls. If Sherlock decided to eat there would be enough, otherwise John would have leftovers for breakfast the next day. Noodles, and sweet corn soup. Especially the soup.

When the food arrived, John arranged it into two servings and yelled for Sherlock to come out of his room. No answer. None expected. John checked the temperature of the soup and decided to wait a few more minutes. He needed it to be warm but not scalding hot. He took off his jumper.

# # # # # # # # # #

Sherlock was lying face down on the bed when he heard a thud at his bedroom door. John, but not knocking. Kicking? Why was John kicking the door? Oh, food. Boring. John was bringing him food and his hands were full so he was kicking the door for Sherlock to open it. Not interested.

Some bumping and scraping noises followed. John was trying to open the door with his hands full. Why didn't he just _go away?_

Finally he heard the door open and John walked in, bringing the smell of Chinese food. Sherlock felt his stomach clench in reaction, but it was unclear if it was hunger or nausea. Sherlock didn't lift his head to tell John, "Go away. Leave me alone. I'm thinking." This last statement wasn't exactly true – he wasn't so much thinking as running his thoughts on a hamster wheel through his brain, but he didn't think John would deduce the difference.

"No. you're not," John answered. "You're sulking."

Well, John was entirely wrong about that. Sherlock never sulked. He sometimes made a tactical withdrawal to consider his options and allow other people time to consider theirs. That was completely different.

"Now sit up and have some soup before my arm falls off."

Sherlock cracked open an eyelid and saw that John was standing beside the bed, somewhat impatiently with a plate of noodles and a bowl of soup balanced precariously in his left hand – obviously he had just used his right hand to open the door and was now trying to get Sherlock to turn over.

Sherlock saw the accident coming but was too late to stop it. As John leaned over to prod Sherlock, the plate of noodles tipped and the soup bowl started to slide forward.

"John!"

John looked down and saw the soup sliding towards the bed. His quick reflexes stopped the bowl of soup landing all over Sherlock by clutching it rapidly towards his own chest with his right hand. Too rapidly. The hot soup sloshed out of the bowel and soaked instantly through his shirt and John hissed with pain.

Sherlock leaped out of bed, took the dishes out of John's hands and dropped them on the bed – the soup bowl was half empty now anyway and wouldn't spill any more. He ripped off John's shirt and used it to mop the burning liquid off his skin. There were already red marks beginning to show on John's chest.

"Bathroom, cold shower, now!" Sherlock commanded.

"I _am_ a doctor Sherlock. It's nothing, only a slight scald."

"Then you already know that cold water is the best thing for it. Bathroom!"

John started moving towards the bathroom, but too slowly for Sherlock's taste. Hot liquid would burn the longer it stayed on the skin, and the soup had come into contact with John's left arm as well as his chest. He pushed John from behind, then ran in front to start running cool water in the shower – not too cold, that would be unpleasant on the skin. He soaked a flannel in cold water for the worst of the burnt skin.

John sauntered into the bathroom and Sherlock immediately attacked him with the cold flannel. John yelped as the wet cloth was applied to his chest. Sherlock turned to soak another washcloth for John's arm. "Strip, and get into the shower. It's cool but not too cold."

"Sherlock, it's OK, really. Just get my doctor's bag from my room and I'll put a dressing on it."

Of course, John's doctor's bag! Sherlock ran up to John's room and grabbed the bag from the foot of his bed. He did not linger in the room, even though it smelled very comfortably of John. He raced back down the bathroom, where John was removing the wet cloth from his chest to check underneath. The red marks were already fading from his skin. Sherlock turned the cloth over and pressed the cold side to John's chest again.

"You need to leave it for at least fifteen minutes for best effect. The heat needs to be removed from the deeper tissues to prevent further damage."

"Yes, _thank you_, Dr Holmes," returned John, sarcastically.

"Now let me check your wrist."

John silently extended his left hand and Sherlock lifted the cloth to peer underneath. The left wrist was slightly red but there was no apparent blistering. Sherlock gave a sigh of relief.

"See?" said John. "Nothing much. Just get a bandage from my bag. You'll have to wrap the wrist for me. I don't think I can do it myself with my off hand."

Sherlock found the bandage and pulled out the loose end as John dried his wrist gingerly with a towel. The skin was still red and looked rather tender. With gentle fingers Sherlock started wrapping the bandage, trying not to pull too tight. He tucked the end under the last loop of bandage and found himself standing very close to John (who wasn't wearing a shirt) still holding his hand as they both started at John's wrist.

John cleared his throat. "Nice job. Thank you."

Without letting go of John's hand, Sherlock let his eyes drift over John's chest. The red splash marks were still visible. It took Sherlock two tries to speak clearly, and his voice was lower and huskier than he had intended. "You should wear a soft tee-shirt over that for a few days so it doesn't rub."

"Yeah, I know." John didn't seem in a hurry to retreat to his room to get one.

They stared at each other from inches away, John's hand still in Sherlock's, until Sherlock broke the gaze and moved away. "Go get a tee-shirt and I'll make us some tea."

"Good idea, thanks. And have some noodles while you're at it." John made his way up the stairs and Sherlock retreated into the kitchen. Maybe he could eat something after all. If it would make John feel better. He would do anything to make John happy.

* * *

_I'm home from hospital and on oral morphine and feeling fiiiiine, so everyone gets to have a nice time! Hope you enjoyed! I might post a new story tomorrow – better get it going before the steroid high wears off! Who said drugs are a bad thing? Not me!_


	7. Chapter 7

**JOHN:**

After a quiet dinner together (of which Sherlock ate rather more than John had expected) John retreated to his bedroom and prepared for sleep. He had induced Sherlock to touch him, to come close while he had his shirt off and to help him while he was in pain. Now all he needed was a nightmare and Sherlock would be hooked. Should he sleep topless, or would that be too much? Better not leave anything to chance. He pulled off his shirt leaving only his pyjama bottoms. He turned the light out and settled down to sleep.

# # # # # # # # # #

**SHERLOCK:**

John had retired to his bedroom with no further discussion of what to do in case of further nightmares. If he thrashed around too much he would tear the bandage off his wrist. But would he welcome Sherlock's comfort? Logically he should – it was the quickest and most efficient way to settle John back to sleep and maximize his functioning the next day. But after all their discussion about how John needed to consent to everything and probably would not agree to sleep with Sherlock ever again… Damn. How could John just wander off to bed without planning ahead for this eventuality?

Or had he? Had John already hinted at what Sherlock should do? He reran their conversation from earlier that evening in his mind. Oh! Of course!

His realization came not a moment too soon – he could already hear John starting to toss and moan in his bed. He ran up the stairs to John's bedroom and flicked on the overhead light.

John sat up in bed, panting, his bare chest heaving. Sherlock couldn't help flicking his eyes over John's body – checking his burnt skin, of course. The red mark could still be seen but the skin appeared intact. The wrist bandage was still in place. Good. There was nothing else to be done, no other reason to linger. Sherlock turned away and went back downstairs to the living room.

# # # # # # # # # #

**JOHN:**

John smirked at Sherlock's retreating back. That had gone pretty much as expected. Sherlock's appreciative glance over his naked chest had not gone unnoticed. A few more glances and who knew where it could all lead? John wasn't exactly sure himself, but he was dead set on finding out.

He turned on his side and snuggled down into the covers. He'd never been grateful for an overactive subconscious mind before. Nightmare number two for the evening, coming right up.

# # # # # # # # # #

**SHERLOCK:**

Sherlock flicked on the overhead light in John's bedroom and stood in the doorway scowling. John was sitting up in bed again, panting and sweating, bare chest heaving. Sherlock consciously directed his eyes away from John's body and towards John's flushed face.

"This is ridiculous. Four times so far this evening. You can't sleep, I can't work. Do you have a better solution for our problem than mine? I cannot allow this continue – it will affect the Work."

John snorted. "Fine. Bring your laptop and sit here and read."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That will only work about half the time, according to my previous experience."

"Really? Well, do whatever you usually do then." John shrugged. "It used to work so well I never even woke, so you know more about my nightmares than I do at this stage."

Sherlock frowned. "But what about your _consent_?" He almost sneered. "Or should I say, your _trust issues_?"

John settled back against the headboard and smiled. "I'll consent in advance. I trust you," he said simply.

Sherlock felt his mouth fall open and closed it abruptly. "Um. Yes. Well then. I usually put an arm on your shoulder, or around your waist. Do you consent to that?"

John's smile widened. "How about I consent in advance to any and all touching above the waist? Would that cover it?"

Involuntarily, Sherlock found himself imagining snuggling up to John all night with _carte blanche_ to hug him as much as he wanted… er, as much as necessary to stem the nightmares, naturally. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Very adequately. Speaking of covering, did you want to put a shirt on?"

John was sliding down under the sheets already. "No, it rubs. I'll be fine."

Sherlock swallowed hard. John's bare skin under his hands, John's naked chest or back pressed against his body. John might be fine, but would he?

# # # # # # # # # #

**JOHN:**

In the morning, John woke to find himself lying comfortably on his side with Sherlock tightly pressed against his back. Sherlock's left arm was under his head and his right hand was resting loosely curled around his waist. From the soft regular breathing on the back of his neck, he inferred that Sherlock was still asleep.

John stretched his legs slightly and rolled cautiously away from the sleeping Sherlock. He felt the arm around his waist tighten slightly in reflexive protest before releasing him. He rolled out of bed and turned to look at the now awake Sherlock.

"That worked well, I thought?" said John, before heading off to the shower. "Let's do that again tonight."

"Mmmm." Sherlock gave a hum of agreement.

* * *

_Sorry this was a short chapter, but the next one is already on the way and I think you can see where it is headed! Anyone who doesn't want to read smut, the story ends here. For the rest of us, on to the last chapter!_


	8. Chapter 8

**SHERLOCK:**

After a month of spending every night in John's bed, Sherlock was happy. They seemed to have reached a kind of equilibrium which satisfied both their needs, just as he had always imagined. John slept well with Sherlock beside him and was able to work well during the day. Sherlock spent half the night reading on his laptop and the other half snuggling against John's back. He had never thought of himself as the 'touchy-feely' type, but apparently his subconscious mind had other ideas. Every morning he woke curled tightly against John, warm and safe. This was his routine now, and he liked it. It was enough.

If this is what their life was going to be going forward; friends, colleagues and comfort for each other, it would be enough. He would not long for something that could never be. Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson would be a working partnership which would achieve fame and immortality. It would be enough. It had to be.

# # # # # # # # # #

**JOHN:**

After a month of Sherlock spending every night in John's bed, John was miserable. He had made a dreadful miscalculation in assuming that close proximity and sharing a bed would lead them inevitably to take the next step and start a sexual relationship. Now that John was finally clear in his own mind about what it was that he wanted – it seemed as far away as ever. Sherlock bloody Holmes seemed no closer to deducing what John _really_ wanted from him than the first day John had moved in. Damn the man! Always spilling out deductions that no-one wanted to know and then totally oblivious to the one thing that would make them both happy.

Even John's dreams were not cooperating. He had deliberately refrained from any form of self-release, had gone to sleep every night thinking about Sherlock right next to him in bed – nothing. If this went on for much longer there might be permanent damage from blue balls.

# # # # # # # # # #

**SHERLOCK:**

One night it finally happened again, the event that Sherlock had been both anticipating and dreading. John's nightly cries of "Sherlock! Sherlock!" took on a decidedly heated tone and Sherlock had to face the dilemma of what to do next. On one hand he knew he should immediately vacate the premises and let John get on with what he needed to do. On the other hand he was sorely tempted to… lend a hand. But John would be angry, embarrassed and maybe even feel violated. He would not risk the precious balance they had achieved in their relationship for a quick burst of gratification.

He started to ease himself away from John preparatory to leaving John in privacy, but John had been a soldier and when he flung himself on someone and pinned them, they were very convincingly pinned. Worse, he could feel his body starting to respond to John's evident arousal. It was time for drastic action before the situation could embarrass them both. He would have to wake John and face whatever his reaction would be. Anger? Distaste? Rejection? John's conscious mind seemed to have no room for _those_ kinds of thoughts about Sherlock, no matter how much his dreams might hint in that direction.

Sherlock braced himself for whatever might come and tapped John firmly on the shoulder. "John? John, wake up." John buried his head in Sherlock's chest and continued to rub his erection against Sherlock's hip. The longer this went on the worse it would be when John finally woke. Sherlock slapped John's shoulder, hard. "John!"

John's eyes flicked open mere centimeters from Sherlock's. For one long horrifying moment Sherlock could not read the expression on John's face. Then John smiled and dove down to press his lips to Sherlock's. For several delightful seconds Sherlock lost himself in the sensation of John's lips on his, John's hands running over his chest, John's erection against his thigh. Then his logical mind reasserted itself – what was John doing? Was John properly awake and conscious?

He pulled away, even as John made a noise of protest. "John, what are you doing?"

"What does it feel like?" He could feel John's lips smiling against his.

"It isn't fair to tease me like this." Sherlock tried to keep the pout out of his voice.

John whispered back, "It's only teasing if I don't deliver…"

Sherlock shivered at the dark promises hinted at in the whisper. "But what about Afghanistan? What about your trust issues?"

John's chuckle was more felt than heard. "This isn't Afghanistan. As I was trying to tell you if you ever bothered to listen to me, I've had some very enjoyable consensual sex since then. I just like to be awake and involved with the process."

Sherlock was stunned. "How did I miss that?" _There's always something!_

"Git," said John. "If you'd actually asked me instead of relying on your deductions and assumptions, I could have told you. I've always been bisexual and that one experience only put me off for a short time. I have consent issues, but no homophobia issues."

Sherlock returned to the point at hand. "So, those enjoyable consensual sexual encounters... How did they begin?"

"Something like this..." said John, guiding Sherlock's hand down into the front of his pyjama pants. They gasped in unison as Sherlock wrapped his long fingers firmly around John's erection. Sherlock started to stroke his hand slowly up and down John's length and John groaned. "Oh, I've been thinking about this for so long! Please, let me touch you too?"

"Oh, God yes." Sherlock replied. In a moment both of them were naked and rubbing together with hands wandering freely over bare skin. Sherlock could not keep his hands off John's cock. After thinking it would be forever out of reach, he was now allowed to touch, to stroke, to rub – maybe even to taste? He dipped his head down and flicked his tongue over the wet tip. John gasped and reached down to push him away.

"Oh no, don't do that." John ground out through gritted teeth.

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

John smirked at him. "I've come so many times just thinking about you doing that, if you do it now this will be over in less than thirty seconds. I want our first time together to last a bit longer than that."

"Well, if that's your only concern, never mind. We have plenty of time to try out everything you've ever dreamed about." Sherlock winked and dipped his head down again, wrapping his lips around the head of John's cock and rubbing the rough side of his tongue firmly against the underside of John's glans.

John groaned and pushed him away again. "I'm serious, stop that! I want us to come together. I want to see your face. Get back up here, you git."

Sherlock pretended to pout. "That's not very nice John – calling me names when I was offering to give you a spectacular blow job."

"Humble as ever, I see."

"False modesty is another form of lying." Sherlock shrugged. "I know what I'm good at and I don't see any point denying it."

"Another time I'm going to test out that claim of yours, but for now I just want your hands on me and mine on you. I can't wait any longer."

Sherlock slid back up John's body, pausing to tongue both of John's nipples on the way. The left was more sensitive than the right, and he noted that fact for future reference. Finally they were face to face again and Sherlock indulged himself in a long and detailed exploration of John's lips and mouth and received in return the exploration of John's clever, clever tongue. Sherlock lay on his left side and John on his right, meaning that each had his dominant hand free for stroking, touching and teasing. While John was busy rubbing Sherlock's nipples (he would discover in a moment that very conveniently Sherlock's right nipple was his more sensitive one) Sherlock reached down between their bodies and wrapped his hand around both of their cocks at the same time. He slowly stroked back and forth, rubbing them together and creating delightful, exquisite friction in the place that it would do the most good.

John started involuntarily thrusting his hips, leading Sherlock to pick up the pace of his strokes. Then John reached down and after gently massaging Sherlock's balls, reached further and pressed firmly just behind the sac. The touch there created a new sensation deep in the pit of Sherlock's belly and he wondered if it was caused by indirect pressure on his prostate. He'd have to ask John later. It was handy having a doctor as a lover. For now he lost himself in the sweet urgency of John's hands and John's mouth and the building heat and tension winding tighter and tighter between them.

"Oh God, Sherlock. I'm nearly there. I can't hold on much longer, love."

"Mmmm, let go then. I'll be right behind you."

"No, I wanted… us to… Oh, fuck it, yes! Just like that… now…"

Sherlock wasn't listening any more to what John had planned, and it didn't look as if John was thinking much about it either. John had his eyes screwed tightly shut and he was panting as Sherlock added a little twist of his wrist which focused the pressure around the head of John's prick. Then John's hips suddenly changed their rapid thrusting rhythm to longer, deeper strokes and John was pulsing in his hand and spurting his seed all over Sherlock's belly.

John opened his eyes and smiled weakly. "Damn. I wanted to show you a good time but you over excited me too quickly. Why do you have to be so bloody good at everything you do?"

Sherlock returned the smile. "I'm glad it lived up to your dreams. You can still show me a good time though."

"What would you like? My hands? My mouth? Or you can just take me here flat on my back – I'm too tired to move though, so you can't have me on my hands and knees tonight."

"Mmmm, so many choices. I'm not going to last long either, so how about we keep it simple for tonight?"

"Good idea." John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's straining erection and Sherlock marvelled at how different and exciting someone else's hand on him felt compared with his own. John's hands were smaller and hotter than his own and his movements less predictable, which made the whole experience much more stimulating. Then John reached around with his other hand and pressed on _that spot_ again, and John's excited gaze on his face made it suddenly all too much. The heat that had coiled in his belly exploded into John's hand and all over John's thighs and it was wonderful, amazing and John was just perfect.

John held him as his heart rate and breathing slowed back to normal, then found a piece of their discarded clothing to clean them both.

"Did you just wipe up our ejaculate with my pyjama top?" Sherlock asked.

"Ejaculate? Who calls it that?" John snorted.

"That is the correct term for it. You're the doctor, you should know that."

"Well yes, but not being a sex therapist I don't usually use the word in a professional context. This is a decidedly unprofessional context, so I think I'm going to just call it 'come' if that's all right with you." After a pause John added, "Yes, I think that was your pyjama top actually. Better yours than mine."

"Hmpf. If you don't like mess you should have accepted the blow job. Much tidier."

John giggled. "Next time, love."

There was a pause while John turned over and tucked himself against Sherlock so that he was curled in his lap with Sherlock's arm comfortably underneath his head. Then Sherlock asked, "Do you mean it?"

"Sure." He could feel John shrug. "You can give me a blow job any time you like. You might have to wait an hour or so from now but anytime after that, I mean."

"No, I was referring to you calling me 'love'. Did you mean it?"

John turned his head to drop a kiss lightly on Sherlock's wrist where it was resting under his neck, "Of course I did. I've loved you for ages now. Ever since that first morning I woke up to find you in my bed. I was embarrassed that you would know how much I wanted you, Mr. Married-to-my-work, so I leapt out of bed and ran away. I've been scheming to get my hands on you ever since."

"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed. "Why does sentiment have to be so complicated? I thought you hated me and wanted to wash off my touch as soon as possible."

"Ah well, love, we have it all sorted out now. Let's go to sleep and if we wake up early enough we can start the day with that blow job you promised."

Sherlock kissed the back of John's neck. "I'd love that. And I love you, too."

From that night forward John's nightmares were cured. But Sherlock continued to spend every night in John's bed, just in case.

**THE END**

* * *

_Thanks everyone, it has been fun! I know this was only a hand job – would anyone be interested in an epilogue with an actual sex scene in it? If so, leave a review and if there's enough interest I'll see what I can do._

_I'll be resuming "Re-forming the Broken Dr John Watson" next, which is my Omegaverse story. I also have two new WIPs in the pipeline, one a Regency era AU and the other a teenlock, so keep an eye out for those. As always, reviews and especially constructive criticism are the oxygen that keeps my creative fires burning!_


	9. Epilogue (Part 1)

**Epilogue (Part 1)**

* * *

**JOHN:**

After a month of fantastic hand jobs, blow jobs and every variety of mutual jerking off that John could possibly think of, they were a deliriously happy couple. At least, he thought they were. All of his dreams were fulfilled – the happy ones, anyway. He seemed to have stopped dreaming about the Hound completely and that made him happy too. It was always difficult to know when Sherlock was happy. He seemed quieter and less frantic and that probably equalled happiness for an eccentric genius, didn't it?

# # # # # # # # # #

**SHERLOCK:**

After a month of satisfying John every night with his hands and mouth in various combinations Sherlock was starting to get paranoid. How long could he string this out before John asked him for sex? Actual penetrative sex – the kind he'd never had? He wasn't even sure if John knew he was technically a virgin. Sure, Irene Adler had mentioned it as a tease, but had John taken it seriously? Realized it was the truth? Thought about why? Why would a man who had experimented with drugs, chemicals, explosives and just about every substance on earth – why would such a man _not_ have explored sex? And how on earth was he going to broach the subject with John?

# # # # # # # # # #

**JOHN:**

John came home from the surgery one Friday night to find the flat in an unusual state. Unusually clean, that is. For the first time he could clearly remember the kitchen table was bare of experiments, and it even appeared to have a tablecloth on it? What had Sherlock blown up this time to make such drastic reparations necessary?

John climbed the stairs to his own room and took his time changing out of his work clothes into a soft tee-shirt and jeans. He left his feet bare and padded down the stairs again in search of tea. Tea first, then he would be in a better state of mind to deal with whatever craziness Sherlock had thought of next. Where was Sherlock anyway?

As John walked into the kitchen he saw the answer to his last question standing staring at the kettle. The kettle appeared to be full of water but not turned on. Had the resident genius forgotten how to use the 'on' switch? John reached past the immobile figure and flicked the kettle on murmuring as he did so, "I'll just turn this on and make us some tea, yeah?"

At the sound of his voice Sherlock leapt almost a foot into the air, whirled around and burst out at the usual blistering speed he used for deductions, "John, I'm a virgin and I think I'm too frightened to ever have proper sex with you and I think you should just leave me now because I can never make you happy and you need to find a woman who can have sex with you and make you happy and give you children and I can never do any of that." Then he stopped, panting and staring at John's stunned face. Then he whirled around and ran out of kitchen and into his own bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John waited for his brain to catch up with his ears as he processed the verbal onslaught. By then the kettle had boiled so John set about methodically making tea. Sherlock had obviously deduced himself into near-hysteria and would probably deal with the coming conversation better with a cuppa inside him. John certainly would.

# # # # # # # # # #

**SHERLOCK:**

Sherlock had spent the whole of Friday cleaning the flat and preparing to ask John for sex. Real, proper, romantic traditional-couple-on-a-Friday-night penetrative sex. An hour before he expected John home he had another shower and changed the sheets on his bed. He put a tablecloth on the kitchen table – he couldn't cook, nothing to be done about that, but they could order take-away and at least eat at home at the table. Then Sherlock would confess that he was a virgin but that he wanted to finally 'do it' and John would take him to bed and be kind and considerate and it would all be wonderful.

Except that when he heard John's key in the lock and John's footsteps on the stairs, he froze completely. He felt detached from his own body but observed himself distantly: heart rate high, sweating, hands trembling. If this were anyone else he would call it a panic attack. Except that he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and he did not have panic attacks.

Then John sneaked up behind him on bare feet and clicked the switch on the kettle and had given him such a fright it was all he could do to bite back a scream. Then, instead of the calm and romantic speech he had prepared proposing dinner and a night of mind-blowing sex, all his fears and insecurities came pouring out. And John just stood there. Instead of saying anything reassuring like, "It's all fine" or instead of agreeing, "Yes, I should leave you for a woman and children," John just _stood_ there. Finally, his nerve broke and Sherlock fled to his bedroom. He didn't want to be there to witness John packing up his things and preparing to move out.

He flung himself face-down on the bed and tried not to listen to what John was doing. It was impossible to turn off the deductions, of course. There was a clink of John taking china out of the cupboards. More than one mug, so he wasn't just making tea for himself. He was moving out. Kettle pouring water, maybe John was having a cup of tea as he packed up his things? Fridge door opening and closing, yes, that was milk going in the tea. Sound of the cutlery drawer being opened and closed, but John doesn't take sugar so he must be removing his things from that drawer. Did John bring any cutlery with him when he moved in? Sherlock didn't remember him having any. Oh, it was all too aggravating. He pulled a pillow over his ears to muffle the sounds.

# # # # # # # # # #

**JOHN:**

"Sherlock, we need to talk. I'm coming in." John opened the door and walked over to stand beside the bed. "Sherlock, sit up and have some tea and then tell me what on earth you have been deducing now. I've told you before that assuming without asking is going to get you into trouble. Now stop being an idiot and talk to me properly!"

"I'm not an idiot." Sherlock mumbled sulkily.

"Oh, don't be upset. Almost everyone is." John replied lightly. He sat on the edge of the bed and swung his legs up so he could sit and lean back against the headboard. He took a sip of his tea and sighed. "Now, tell me what is going on in that funny old head of yours to say such things. I'm not leaving you for a wife and children, let's get that off the table to start with. God, can you imagine me as a father? I'm a returned war veteran with PTSD and I already have _two_ full-time jobs, one at the surgery and the other as an assistant to a consulting detective. Not to mention my appalling track record with women, even before I was having fantastic sex with you. So forget it, there's no way you are getting rid of me that easily!"

"Except that you aren't." Sherlock's voice was still muffled by the pillow.

"Is this about sex? You're not happy with what we've been doing together?"

Sherlock sat up suddenly and glared at John. "We _haven't_ been having sex. I just toss you off. You will eventually want sex and I can't give it to you. That's what this is about. I'm a virgin. There, I said it. Are you happy now?" Sherlock flopped face down onto the bed again.

"God save me from the drama." John took another sip of his tea. "Mycroft warned me about your tendency for the dramatic."

Sherlock groaned. "Please don't mention Mycroft while we are in bed together. It turns my stomach."

"Anyway, so what if you are a virgin?" John shrugged. "We all were once. I can help you with that, or not, as you prefer. It isn't really a big deal."

Sherlock turned over on his back and blinked at John in disbelief. "Are you prepared to never have sex again? How is that not a big deal?"

John frowned. "I think we might be misunderstanding each other. In matters of sex it is always best to be crystal clear, even if it might be a bit embarrassing. I like the way we have sex _now_. You make me feel fantastic, and I hope I do the same for you. Half the time I can't control myself and I come into your amazing mouth or hands long before I'm ready for it to end. I've had more orgasms in the last month than in the whole three years previously. I love you. I love making love with you and don't you _dare_ call it 'just tossing off' as if it doesn't mean anything."

"You were in Afghanistan."

"Sorry, what?" John was confused by the apparently irrelevant remark.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You were in Afghanistan for the three years prior to coming back to London. There's no comparison between there and then, and here and now."

"Fine," John huffed. "Forget the comparisons anyway, they don't matter. This is about you and me. If you like what we do now, that's all that matters. I like what we do now, very much." He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "In fact, we're both right here in a bedroom, we could do it again any time you're ready…"

"Jo-ohn!" Sherlock groaned. "Don't make jokes about it. I'm serious! Would you be happy never to have sex again your whole life?"

John turned to face Sherlock and fixed him with a glare. "Don't keep saying that! Listen to me when I tell you that I have all the sex I need right here with you. Don't get fixated on the whole 'Tab A goes into Slot B' mechanics of it all. As far as I'm concerned the main event is the vulnerability of getting naked with another person and being open enough to let go and have an orgasm with them and a cuddle afterwards. That's all I need for good sex, and with you it has been all that and a packet of crisps. We have fantastic sex and to answer your question, yes, I'd be happy to continue just as we are for the rest of my life."

Sherlock sat up and stared into John's face while John stared back, hoping and willing for Sherlock to read the truth of his words in his face and body.

Finally, Sherlock said slowly, "But you've had penetrative sex with a man before. Did you like it? Would you want to do it again?"

John thought seriously about the question. "I have, yes. Did I like it? Well, yes. It's fun, but I don't hold it up as the be-all and end-all of having sex. It's just another variation, another way to achieve an orgasm together. I'd be happy to do it with you if you want to, but I'd be happy never to do it again if you don't want to. I want you to understand this clearly." He looked full into Sherlock's face. "I'd rather have whatever kind of sex you want to have because it is with _you_, than have the craziest kinkiest variant of Kama Sutra sex with anyone else. Get it?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact.

John smirked, lightening the mood again. "So anytime you want to let me fuck that fantastic mouth of yours, that would be just _peachy_ with me…" He winked.

Sherlock pretended to be shocked. "Sex fiend," he sniffed. "I think we should have dinner first. That was my plan, you know." He shot a sideways look at John. "Romantic dinner, then sex."

John nodded gravely. "By all means, let's stick with the plan. Shall I ring for Chinese or Thai?"

# # # # # # # # # #

**SHERLOCK:**

After a bit of bickering they settled on Thai food, which they ate at the table using actual plates and utensils. It was a bit of a novelty but it meant more than the usual amount of washing up. Sherlock made a mental note that for future romantic events he would take John out to eat.

Sherlock was jittering around the living room, unable to settle without an experiment on the go. He had just opened John's laptop and was cracking his password when John came in with two cups of tea.

"Is that my laptop?" he asked.

Sherlock was absorbed in breaking into it, so he just nodded.

"Fine, have fun with my new password. I've changed it, just so you know." John sat down and flicked on the telly. "You only have about twenty minutes anyway. As soon as I finish this cup of tea I'm going to bed, and I expect you to join me there."

"No problem," Sherlock answered absently. "I just want to check my website for any new cases or messages. I'll probably be done before you are." As if to illustrate his point he took a large gulp of tea. The new password was turning out to be tricky, and in the end Sherlock had to resort to breaking into the computer manually and choking the password out from the inside. "John, what sort of a word is 'Johnlocked' anyway?"

John just laughed. "Plug it into Google and you'll soon see. Might give you some ideas, actually."

Sherlock did so and felt his mouth falling open. People had some amazing ideas about what he and John got up to in the privacy of their flat. And those people had drawn those ideas in incredible (and anatomically correct) detail. He marvelled at the time and talent which had been devoted to himself and John. John was worth it, of course. He wondered if his pectoral muscles really looked like that, and if the height difference between himself and John was really so obvious. To him it felt quite comfortable. John was just the right height to tuck under his chin or lean against his shoulder, and when they were both lying down it didn't matter anyway.

John's voice broke into his thoughts. "You're quiet, love. See anything interesting?"

"Mmm." Sherlock gave a non-committal murmur. "I think you said after you finished your tea it would be time for bed? I'm done here so I'll use the bathroom first, I think." He closed the laptop and headed out of the living room.

# # # # # # # # # #

**JOHN:**

John slowly finished his tea, not really paying any attention to whatever show was flickering across the screen in front of him. He was hoping to give Sherlock time to get into bed and settle his nerves – obviously the whole virginity thing had got him quite wound up. In a way, it was rather cute that Sherlock thought John could have a woman and children for the asking. In John's experience it wasn't quite that simple. It was a moot point anyway. He was with Sherlock now.

John frowned to himself. Viewed in another light it was not a very flattering picture of John's character. Did Sherlock really think John would leave him if he said 'no' to any of John's sexual requests? Or did he think that John was so hot to stick his dick inside him that refusing would be the instant end of their friendship?

John wondered briefly why Sherlock was so frightened of losing his virginity, but then decided that this was not the right time to press for those details. Tonight he had to make good on his earlier speech and really press home to Sherlock the idea that good sex meant having a good time together and damn anyone else's definition of it. He dropped his mug in the sink and went to get ready for bed.

# # # # # # # # # #

**SHERLOCK:**

By the time John reached the bedroom Sherlock was already ensconced in the bed and fretting himself into a state. His fists were balled up in the covers and he was sitting up stiffly rather than resting against the head of the bed. He put down his phone and looked up as John came into the bedroom.

"I want you to take my virginity tonight," Sherlock said bluntly.

"No, you don't," said John calmly as he climbed under the covers next to Sherlock. "You think_ I_ want to take your virginity tonight, which is a very different thing. Actually I don't," he yawned widely. "I'm much too tired. Let's have sex the good old way and do what we know works. We can get experimental another night."

Sherlock sighed with an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. He was relieved not to have to face his fears just yet, but having nerved himself to the task was disappointed that John didn't seem very keen. He frowned. John had said he was too tired. Did taking someone's virginity take a long time? Was it a lot of work? The reading he had done so far had never suggested that.

"Don't fret, love." John leaned over and kissed him. "It isn't that I'm not interested or that it is all so awful. It's just that I want to take it slowly and make it good for you and right now I'm still processing the idea that it will be your first time." He smiled slowly. "When you are ready, I have something I'd like to show you…" He gave an exaggerated leer and trailed his hand slowly up Sherlock's thigh over the covers. Sherlock was not yet hard – he had been too nervous. He tried to relax into John's kisses.

_It will all be OK._ Sherlock told himself. _This is John. He loves me and he won't force me into anything I can't handle._

# # # # # # # # # #

**JOHN:**

John kissed Sherlock softly, undemandingly. This was not the time for heat or urgency. His kisses were loving and gentle, intending to convey without words that it was fine, it was all just fine. He slid his right arm under Sherlock's neck and wound his fingers through Sherlock's curly hair. Usually they minimized the height difference by embracing the other way around and letting John slide down the bed a little, but tonight John wanted to be in charge. This night was for showing Sherlock that love comes in many different forms.

John wrapped his left arm around Sherlock's back, stroking the tense muscles of his back and shoulders, rubbing warmth and relaxation into the knots and feeling them loosen under his fingers. He covered Sherlock's face with soft kisses across his eyelids, along those amazing cheekbones, the tip of his nose and back down to his lips. He kept the kisses light, not demanding that Sherlock open his mouth. He teased with varying degrees of pressure from his lips. His only hint that this might go further was the pressure of his erection against Sherlock's belly, but he could hardly help that.

After what felt like hours of kissing, Sherlock finally groaned and flopped over on his back, pulling John on top of him. "John, I need more. Do something!"

_Finally._ John kissed his way down Sherlock's chest, stopping to pay suitable attention to each nipple in turn. He wriggled his hips backwards as his lips moved down – ah, yes, Sherlock was standing to attention now. Good. He grasped Sherlock's erection firmly in his left hand and kissed quickly down until his lips joined with his hand. He rubbed the rough side of his tongue all over the head of Sherlock's cock, enjoying the feel of it leaping in his hand each time his tongue passed across the frenulum. He wasn't able to take the whole lot into his mouth at once, but he coordinated the strokes of his hand and mouth together. According to the gasps and moans from the head of the bed it seemed to be working for Sherlock.

His jaw was starting to ache and the movements of his tongue were getting a bit sloppy, but from the gathering tension in Sherlock's thighs it wouldn't take much more. He brought up his right hand and pressed on the sweet spot just behind Sherlock's balls. Deep, firm pressure with just a little bit of movement for extra stimulation and that did it – Sherlock was gasping wordlessly while pulsing in his hand and spurting into his mouth. John did not usually like to swallow but tonight was special. He sat up slowly, stretching out his neck and back from the unusual position.

Sherlock was still out of it, and John smiled smugly. He did not give head as often as Sherlock did to him, but it appeared that his skills were increasing with practice and with thanks to some amazing sites on the internet. He reached over to his own bedside table and took a long drink of water, hoping it was not too obvious that he was also washing his mouth out. He did this because he loved the way it made Sherlock feel, not because he loved the act for its own sake.

Sherlock finally rolled onto his side and seemed to be reaching for John. "Mmmm?" he mumbled.

"I'm right here, love." John murmured back.

"Wha… 'bout you?" Sherlock's hands were groping vaguely in John's direction and he seemed to be trying to force his eyes open. "Wanna blow job?"

"No, I'm so excited from pleasing you, just touch me twice and I think it will be all over." John chuckled, then groaned as Sherlock's wandering hands finally connected with his aching cock. Sherlock was half asleep but it didn't matter. He wrapped his long fingers around John and pumped him up and down a few times. As John had thought, it took less than a minute before the whole evening's worth of pent-up desire came rushing out of him and onto Sherlock's chest.

"Wazzat goo'?" Sherlock was falling asleep again.

"_Very_ good."

Wrapped in each other, contented and loved, Sherlock and John slept.

* * *

_This story should be renamed "The Five times I tried to end it, and the One time I finally did!" This was originally meant to be a one-shot and now this is bloody chapter 9, and there will be at least one more! I'm booked to go back into hospital tomorrow which means I probably won't get Part Two of the Epilogue posted for at least two weeks. Please review! The happiness I get from your reviews will sustain me through my bad days._


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